Dying fate
by Daesgal
Summary: A unchanging ritual that takes place every night, some people desperately denying reality. Followed by realization. Oneshot Various pairings


AN: just something I wrote one evening.

**Title:** Dying fate

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything, but my computer andmy immagination.

Another night had fallen.

Another lonely evening had just begun.

Another evening for the two figures sitting in the lonely living-room.

Another evening with the shadows finally hiding away the lone corridors, endless walls and countless rooms never used.

The two females sat on the broad sofa, dark as the woods in moonless night, but for others black, darker than any shadow ever fallen.

They were completely still, no breathing hard enoutgh to be heard. In one of their hands each, a glass filled with vine. And on the table the bottle.

But that was only pretense. Each night, the same glasses, filled with the same liquid from the same bottle. Nothing, really. Just a reason as to why their hands must not be wrung in their laps, grasping so tight at their wrists as to draw blood.

They looked out into the darkening sky, seeing the stars sparkle with their own fire.

But this was a pretense also, just ike the vine was to occupy their hands, the nightly sky was to occupy their eyes. A reason to draw their gazes away from the wall, behind wich, they knew oh so well, lay the rest of the mansion.

But there was no means that would occupy their thoughts.

Meaningless conversations of anything and everything. Maybe even ridiculous things occupying a female's head, long since tired and having lived on for shorter times each day, and then having died altoghether one long awaited day.

Now another evening had begun and another round of the meaningless, yet so important routine would find it's way to begin. To begin the neverending circle that was sworn to be broken each day and continued on it's own every evening, despite all efforts.

By now, even the struggling against this old routine had quieted down, but both of them refusing to give up the pretense of wanting to change the unchangeable, all more habit then real struggle, by now.

The spark of life had died down in them, as in all other occupants of the house.

What had once been a consuming, demanding and all to willingly obeyed, fiercely roaring wildfire had now been reduced to a tiny, nearly unnoticed spark, almost lifeless, only giving them a little life, even if life itself they found no more worth living.

And there it began.

Another female figure entered, soundlessly, gliding through the closed door.

Halting in front of the two.

Sitting inches above the smooth surface of the table, gazing intently at them.

The figure gave a short nod to each.

One to the pale blonde and another to the equally pale brunette.

She was met by dull stares of pale blue and sullen hazle.

Long since neither had spoken the dialouge that would have started it all as it had gotten old, and somehow then just vanishing from frequent use.

And then it began.

A soft voice painted pictures, landscapes, looks, movements, sights, gazes, touches and feelings.

Truths that had, over the time been unharmed, untouched by lies.

Yet, the two females so desperately wanted them to be.

Desperately, so desperate that they even believed them to be lies until one would venture to her bed and find the truth, ruthlessly, carelessly shoved in her face, and till the other stood in her own room, seeing, realizing that it was the truth, and no one would, could help it.

Another also wished so desperately for it to be false. He, too, would find cruel reality in his own bed. But his realization would come late, and just by hearing one soft-spoken word.

And still, on and on the rich voice filled with emotion, painted stories into their minds, making the room come alive.

Giving fresh life to memories, reliving things that neither of them had known, but now knew all too well.

Bringing back things that had only been whispers into the delicate earshells of a person dear, a fleeting caress of breath across heated, silken skin and a long since forgotten lover's touch.

Things that one of them didn't want to let go, because they would never be expirienced again, for the person doing them was long dead, though still so much alive in the heart of the one that cherished him so.

Things that one of them and the other wanted to forget and denying its beeing reality. Things that both of them, had not, are not and would never be expiriencing, for the person doing them was long dead, though still being alive, breathing, wandering in their midst.

And then, the voice stopped, the paintings dissapeared, and all the memories were locked up into their cage till the next evening, denied to come by the two sitting, but known to come by the figure, sitting over the desk.

She floated out again, leaving without a trace, not bothering with the old, withered niceties, and again passing the door as if it were not there.

A moment later the blonde stood, stretching out her hand, pulling the other one up, a thousand times practiced ritual, both walking out the door and then silently parting ways.

They each thought the same, did the same, just like the other person somewhere, on the special location, out there in the house. All denying the truth that had just been told to them.

And then, the different times of realization.

The blonde walked into her room, going over to the picture on the mantlepiece of the roaring fireplace, and picking it up. Realizing the truth again for herself, as she gazed at the picture.

Her son, smiling, the long not smiled happy smile, holding another, both of them different, yet, truly soulmates.

And she went to bed, not realizing that she cried, because what the picture showed would never happen again. But still she knew, as it, too, was the same, everyday anew.

The brunette, too, walked into her room, up to the bed, seeing the son of the blonde haired female she'd just left, equally blond hair lying in a halo around his head. Silver eyes, dull, gazing at her with the sharpness of steel.

Realizing, that that gaze would never soften, not for her.

She went to bed, into the cold arms of an uncaring husband and unloving lover.

And then the last, dying time and time again in passions and apathy's loud and silent grasp, hearing, despite the filled air and the silence, or maybe because of it, the one thing that shattered the lie and brought back reality.

And all three, two hearing it every day, the other hearing of it every day, remembered the words of the female, sitting in the air, and finishing her tale.

„In this world, love is for poets, never the famous balcony-scene, just a dying fate at heaves gate."

AN: the characters, if you haven't figured out some were:

Blonde Female: Narcissa Malfoy

Brunette female: Pansy Parkinson-Malfoy

Floating female: Zedora Black(OC)

Son/Pansyshusband: Draco Malfoy

Sons soulmate: Harry Potter

Third denier: Remus Lupin

Thirds lover: Severus Snape

And to the pairings (x is purely sexual, and + is love sounds somehow confusing):

Draco x+ Harry

Pansy + Draco (onesided)

Draco x Pansy

Severus x+ Sirius

Remus + Severus (onesided)

Severus x Remus


End file.
